They washed away their blue-clay Ruck faces in the stream and climbed back aboard the waggon, chattering happily with Kian and the Dwarves and laughing over the pratfalls of one another. Even the usually taciturn Anval smiled at their antics, and Borin chuckled, too, as he drove the wain back onto the Crossland Road. Kian's tactic had worked: the somber mood had been broken.
The lessons went on in high spirits as Kian, using examples from the battle to illustrate his points, spoke on many things, such as the importance of holding the high ground and of knowing the obstacles behind as well as the enemy before. Every now and again the buccen broke out in broad laughter at mention of some blunder occasioned in their battle, but Kian drove home the lesson.
That evening the travellers pulled off the road next to a wooded draw. They could feel rain approaching on the wind across the Dellin Downs and over the valley of the Wilder River. The coming storm promised to be a heavy one, for as Cotton remarked, "This is sure to be a real frog strangler; why, the leaves on the trees have been turned right round backwards all day." All looked to the south and west and could see a dark wall of rain stalking the land and marching toward their campsite.
Among the trees, Anval and Borin skillfully used their axes to hastily construct a large, crude lean-to out of saplings as proof against the rain, with two smaller slant-roofs to either side. The Warrows scurried thither and yon to gather a supply of dry firewood and place it under shelter. And Kian unhitched the team, leading the horses beneath the eaves of the wood and tethering them in the protection of the trees. The companions had but barely finished preparing their camp when the first drops began to fall, followed by an onslaught of water cascading from the black skies.
It rained all that night, and though the watch was kept, the guard's main duty was to tend the fire under the large lean-to, for nought could be seen or heard beyond the curtain of hard-driven rain. Kian spent his watch shaping some new wooden swords, for the old ones were badly tattered from the beatings they had received; each of the other guardians simply kept up the fire in his own turn and huddled close to the blaze to ward away the wetness.
Toward morning the rain slackened as the storm moved away to the east, and by dawn it was gone and only the leaves dripped water to the ground. The Sun rose to a freshly washed land, and the day was to be crisp and bright with a high blue October sky.
In spite of the storm-troubled sleep, spirits in the waggon were as bright and cheerful as the day itself, and after each lesson there was much singing and laughter. In the early afternoon the travellers emerged from the low foothills and saw the road falling before them, down and across a short flat to the River Caire, the waterway curving out of the north and disappearing to the south and sparkling in the midday Sun. Perry, filled with the clarity of the day, burst out in song:
The Road winds on before us — A Path to be unwound, A surprise around each Corner lust waiting to be found.
And we, the happy travellers Who trek upon this way, Look forward in our eagerness And glance aback to say:
The Road turns there behind us — A Path that we've unwound. Yet sights around the Corners Remain there to be found
By those who come behind us And see what we have seen:
The wonders will be as fresh As if we 'd never been
Along this way before them
And gazing on this Land
With beauty spread before us all . . .
I say, oh isn 't it Grand!
I say, oh isn't it Grand!
Both Perry and Cotton—who had joined in the singing—burst out in laughter. The hearts of the Man and the Dwarves were uplifted by the simple song the Warrows sang in celebration of the passing countryside. In the words of the song Lord Kian beheld two more facets of the nature of Waerlinga: Not only do they take pleasure in seeing things of beauty, but they also take pleasure in knowing that others will share these things, too. And this gift of sharing is just one of the things that makes these small Folk special. The Man was so moved by this knowledge that in the back of the rolling waggon he gruffly hugged Cotton to him with one arm while smiling and tousling Perry's fair hair with his free hand. Yet neither Warrow knew why.
"Ah, my wee Waerlinga," said Kian, "I think that every Kingdom, even-court in every Land, needs a few of you little ones to keep up the good spirits and the cheer of the people—oh, not as court jesters, for I deem you too tenderhearted to fulfill that task. Instead, as a small, rustic Folk, close to the earth, of indomitable will and gentle good sense, you would set an example for all to see and hear of living life in the spirit in which it should be lived. You are an openhearted, cheerful, gentle, sturdy Folk, and this old world is leagues ahead of where it would be without you."
Somewhat embarrassed by the praise, both Cotton and Perry said nought; yet each was pleased by the young Lord's words.
The waggon trundled across the Stone-arches Bridge over the river and came into Rhone, the share-shaped region of land known as the Plow, bounded on one side by the River Caire and on the other by the River Tumble, and extending north to the Rigga Mountains.
The road rose up again out of the river valley and wound into the middle regions of a dark-forested hill country known as Drearwood, in days of old a place of dire repute: Many were the tales of lone travellers or small bands who had ridden into the dim woods never to be seen again. From here, too, came accounts of larger, armored groups that had beaten off grim monsters half glimpsed in the night. And the Land had been shunned by all except those who had no choice but to cross it—or by those who sought fame let no fell creatures had lived in the area for almost three hundred years, since the time of the Great Purging by the Lian Guardians. And the Crossland Road wound among the central regions of this hill country for eighty or so miles.
At sundown the waggon had just come into the beginning western edges of the slopes, and the travellers made camp.
That night was crystal clear, and a gibbous Moon, growing toward fullness, shed bright light over the landscape. When not on watch, each of the wayfarers slept extraordinarily well, partly because their sleep during the rain of the previous night had not been restful, but mainly because this day had gone so well.
Trie order of the watch remained the same, and at the end of Perry's duty he awakened Anval, this time with a cup of tea ready for the Dwarf. The two sat together in silence for a while, listening to the call of a far-off owl. Perry noted that Anval seemed more than just taciturn; the Dwarf appeared instead to be brooding. "Does something bother you, Anval?" asked Perry, sipping his own tea and huddling in his cloak.
"Aye, Small One, and it is this: although your feet are set upon one course, your thoughts trace another path; and if you do not change, you will come to great harm," growled the Dwarf. He looked with his eyes of black at the buccan, whose mouth had dropped open in astonishment at Anval's reply. But before Perry could say aught, Anval went on, "You dwell too much in past glories and not enough in the reality of today, Waeran. Heed me: we are marching off to War—not to heroism and grandeur, but to slaying and horror —and I fear what the truth of War will do to you. War is not some Noble Game. Only in time does the vile stench of War become the sweet smell of victory. Whether in ballade or ode or book, History alone looks upon War as a grand achievement; all else look upon it as a dreadful last resort. And you, Perry, seem to see the world through events and eras of the past: past Kingdoms, past glories, past deeds, past trials, past victories. But time dims the horrors of those events and magnifies the good. We Chakka have a saying:
"The Past, the Present, the Future, Time's Road winds through all three. Live for Today, but think of Tomorrow; Yesterday is just Memory. "
Anval's black, forked beard shone darkly in the firelight. "You must forgo the past, Perry, and live for today, and tomorrow."
"But Anval," protested Perry, disturbed by the acuity of the Dwarf's insight, "we Warrows, too, have a saying:
"Yesterday's Seeds are Tomorrow's Trees.
"The past points t
oward the future. By looking into history we can at times foretell events to come. Our quest could have been foretold: Dwarves were driven from Drimmen-deeve long ago and now seek to return, but
TREK TO KRAGGEN-COR
Spawn were driven into Drimmen-deeve back when Gron fell, and War will result. So you see, Anval, yesterday's seeds are tomorrow's trees."
"Only if tended today do seeds grow into trees/' gritted Anval. 'Tes-terday's deeds are but shadows of the past and are dead and gone, and tomorrow's are but visions of the future and are yet to come. The deeds of today are the images of import. Shun not the present and forfeit not the future in order to live on past glories, for that is the way of the Historian who dreams of glory and sees not horror. Your spirit will be crushed and you may even be slain if vou follow the Historian's storvbook wav into the reality of War."
"But Anval," said Perry quietly, "I am a Historian."
"Oh no, little one, now you are a warrior. " Anval turned and stared into the night, and in a low voice with driving urgency he declared, "You must become a wamor!" The Dwarf then strode to the perimeter and began his watch and said no more.
Perry lay down to sleep, but could not. He was disturbed by Anval's perception, and half denied, half accepted it; but thought, How can Anval say such things? He tells me that I must forgo the past, as if he and Borin and all of Dwarfdom live that way. Yet, the mere mention of Elgo, Sleeth s Doom, drove both Anval and Borin into a frothing rage, even though Elgo won the Dragons plunder nearly twenty-six hundred years ago. Forget the past 7 Hmmph! Do Dwarves 7 1 should say not! I clearly recall Borin saying, "He who seeks the wrath of Dwarves, finds it! Forerrf" That's certainly not forgoing the past
I think these Folk are full of contradiction: On the one hand they are suspicious; secretive; stiff-necked; proud, bellicose warriors, fierce in battle; and always ready, nay eager, to avenge old wrongs. But on the other hand they are crafters of great skill; steadfast, honorable companions; trusting enough to permit a virtual stranger to guide them in an undertaking of mortal peril; and they seem genuinely concerned over the welfare of newfound comrades. They are enthralled by the beauty of the stars, yet are afraid of their blazing omens. And, to cap it all, they appear to sincerely believe in sayings that fly directly in the face of the darker side of their own manifest nature . . . ah, but in these things, are they different from any other Folk?
Yet what Anval says is true. I must become a warrior!
And as Perry lay weighing Anval's words and pondering the nature of Dwarves, he watched the bright Moon sinking behind a dark, western hiD; and when the silver orb was gone, the buccan was fast asleep
CHAPTER 9 ARDEN FORD
The early morning of the thirteenth day of their journey found the travellers back in the waggon on the east-west Crossland Road, still wending their way toward the eastern margins of the Drearwood. Earlier, they had awakened to find the glades and hills covered with bright frost and the morning air cold and crisp; and they had huddled around the fire, warming themselves with flames and tea until the Sun's rays had spilled over the hillsides and down among the trees. Then they had broken camp and resumed the trek. And as they had ridden east, the frost faded under the Sun's warmth.
The slopes rising around them for the most part provided the only view: thick-coppiced hillsides mounting up, covered with green and bronze and scarlet and yellow-gold foliage. But now and again the waggon would overtop a crest, and to the east, down on the horizon, like a jagged bank of white-tipped low-lying dark clouds, the wayfarers could see the Grimwall. Their destination, the Landover Road Ford, lay on the other side of that somber range. Though the mountains were some distance away, the comrades expected to reach the lower margins by nightfall; they anticipated crossing the River Tumble at Arden Ford by midmorning, and passing Arden by midaf-ternoon, leaving several hours to come among the foothills by sundown. They were aiming to cross the range through the Crestan Pass, the only direct route to Landover Road Ford. Assuming no delays, Kian reckoned that they should reach the banks of the Argon River in just six more days. There they planned to make camp and wait for Durek and the Army, due to arrive about ten days hence.
But for now, the land began falling steadily as the wain drew closer to the valley of the Tumble River. The sword training continued, and just after the fourth stop in the morning, the travellers followed the road through a dark pine forest and then into a grey-rock-walled pass cutting a lengthy slot through the saddle joining two hills.
The horses' hooves and waggon wheels echoed hollowly as they pulled through the long notch, but the echoes diminished and finally died as they
emerged from the sheer-walled cleft. "Lor! Look at that!" cried Cotton, pointing ahead.
Before them the wayfarers saw the land fall steeply to a mile-wide flat running to the river where the shallow Arden Ford should have been, but was not. The valley was flooded! The river was raging: roiling water raced and plunged along the course, overspreading the banks and running far up onto the flatland. Both Anval and Borin vented bitter oaths.
"What has happened, Lord Kian?" asked Perry, looking upon the torrent. "The river looks as if it has gone quite mad, and the ford cannot be crossed."
"I do not know for certain," answered Kian, shading his eyes and gazing east and then pointing. Directly ahead in the near distance they could see the Grimwall Mountains; the jagged range marched out of the north and away to the south, a colossal barrier to cross should they ever breast the flood. "Mayhap the storm of four nights past was trapped upon the teeth of the mountains, and all its rain plunged onto the slopes and into the vales that issue into this valley, flooding it."
Cotton thought about the intensity and duration of the storm and tried to envision the enormous amount of water released on the walls of the mountains to flow down the watercourses to come to this place. He looked once more at the raging river below. "We couldn't even cross that in a boat, could we? Or a raft? No, I didn't think so. Well, Old Man Tumble has got us trapped here, right enough."
"And the problem is that there's not another way around, nor a bridge to cross, nor a ferry within hundreds of miles," said Kian, answering Bonn's unspoken question. "We must cross here. Our only recourse is to wait for the waters to subside. Til then, we are blocked.
"Even so, in one way we are fortunate, for it was rain that fell everywhere and not snow, even in the high mountains; and though the ford is flooded, the Crestan Pass still seems to be open—not choked off by white. And this flood before us will eventually ebb. . . . When? I cannot say; yet ebb it will."
They camped high on the slope near the outlet of the rock-walled pass. Anval cut some stakes with his axe and walked the mile down to the edge of the rushing flood and there drove one of the wooden shafts into the earth as a marker. He then marched straight away from the water and every five paces planted another stake until there were five altogether. Cotton, who had gone with Anval, hefted a small round stone and eyed the far shore, then threw with all his might; with a splash, the stone fell short of the far bank by ten yards. He tried again with virtually identical results. Shaking his head in resignation, he trudged after Anval toward the camp.
"We will track the march of the water by using the stakes as a gauge," declared Anval to Cotton as they tramped back. "The place where I drove the markers had not yet been under flood. I deem the water is still rising." They looked back and could see that even now the first stake was being
encroached upon. With a sigh from the buccan and an oath from the Dwarf, they turned and continued on toward the encampment.
Even a deluge, however, did not affect the sword instruction except to dampen somewhat the spirited play. And between lessons the five eyed the water's advance, trying to judge whether or not the river was beginning to crest. By sundown the Warrows had reached the stage where they were learning about shields and bucklers, their use, their strengths, and their weaknesses. And the water was still rising, having reached the third stake. Grumbling, Anval marched
down in the twilight and drove five more markers.
That night, at each change of the watch, the guard being relieved went in the moonlight with a flaming brand to check the flood, passing the information on to the one remaining on ward. At the beginning of Perry's turn, Borin strode down to the river and looked, and the water had reached the fifth stake; at the end of Perry's watch, the buccan awakened Anval and then went to note the stage of the overflow, and it was still at the fifth marker. Perry returned to camp and reported to Anval and then fell asleep, dejected by this barrier.
It seemed that Perry had no sooner closed his eyes than he was jolted awake by Cotton whooping and laughing in the dawn. "It's goin' down! It's goin' down! It's between the fifth and fourth! Old Man Tumble is creeping back to his bed!"
Perry jumped up and ran with the others to the water's edge and saw that sometime in the night the crest had passed, and the river, though still raging and boiling, was at last receding.
All that day they watched the water's slow retreat back toward its original course. The sword training progressed at a faster pace than usual because questions or points could be illustrated instantly in false combat or in the practice drills without having to wait for a waggon-stop. This day Lord Kian showed the quick Warrows how to use a dagger in the left hand to ward an opponent's sword.
The next day an extraordinary thing occurred: Cotton "killed" Lord Kian. In mock battle the buccan actually got through Kian's defenses with a quick thrust that struck Kian above the heart. Kian was as surprised as everyone else, for he had thought that Perry, with his greater agility, would be the first to "slay" a "Lokh." But it was Cotton who scored the first "kill." Perry looked on and was at the same time elated and frightened, for until now it had been an exciting game, but with this "kill" it suddenly became a deadly serious business. Anval tugged at his black beard and shook his head in regret, for he knew that these gentle Folk were not meant to be warriors, though necessity forced them so.
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